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When Quintessential Quentin came to town ...
he pestered all my friends in search of me.
He'd asked where I had moved and could be found ...
the souls who care respect my privacy.
But nonetheless, he found me on his own ...
he smiled like the devil only could.
He said, "It breaks my heart you're so alone,"
while rubbing at his crotch just like he should.
He then unzipped his pants, exposed his cock.
His pants slipped down a bit below his knees.
He said, "Come on, you know you miss this rock."
I looked away and softly said, "Oh, please!"
"My God, you've changed, you've learned a little class?"
Cold turkey works for crack, but also ass.
I asked if he would stay and have some tea ...
off came his clothes and on the couch he laid.
"Oh," he said, "but you'll be drinking me."
I said, "You ain't all that, I ain't afraid."
And so I made him tea, passed him the mug.
He said, "This tea; it needs a bit of cream ...
come over here and have yourself a tug."
He'd shaved his balls, his cock was pink and clean.
My mouth began to water for a taste ...
he stroked it for a bit and when he jizzed ...
he shot into the mug; none went to waste.
He said, "I'm being nice, I could have whizzed."
He handed me the cup and said, "Now here ...
you sober people like fresh tea .. I'll share."
So, Quintessential Quentin made his move.
He placed his hand upon his pale cheek ...
so I could see his sweet, pink, sweaty groove ...
he knew the scent of it would make me weak.
He said, "Forget the tea, I've got some cake ...
for you to worship, come sit over here."
And once again, my knees began to quake,
"Come on, French kiss this molten derrier."
I sat back and remembered my own pact ...
forget the drugs and sex; learn to be strong.
I then recalled the self-control I lacked ...
back when I let my Quentin stay too long.
Upon that fucking cock I might just choke ...
to solve the problem, sniff a little coke?
